Hunger Point

by Jillian Medoff

  I haven’t spoken to Abby, which makes me wonder if we’ll ever be friends again. I want to tell her about my grandfather, about Freddie and Vicky Tayborn, but I’m still ashamed about my behavior and I can’t bring myself to call her. My life is so different now, it almost feels like she was never in it, although I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss her.

  I sit in one of the chairs facing Vicky’s desk. Her card says she’s the vice president of East Coast promotions. I don’t know what that means, but I do know it warrants her a corner office with a huge desk, a couch, two chairs, and a small table for conferences.

  “I’m so happy you could make it today, Frannie,” Vicky says. She brushes away a lock of hair. Every time I look at her, I wonder what she feels like when she stares into a mirror, knowing that the face staring back is her own. She must love herself every day. “I really wanted to meet you.” She’s wearing a form-fitting hunter-green suit. I smooth my own suit, arrange my legs. She speaks so softly, so sweetly, I feel like her beauty deepens and is extended to include me.

  “Well thank you for inviting me. I know I’ve been difficult to get hold of.”

  She waves her hand. “Well? Where do we begin?” She sits back in her leather chair. “I’ve learned a lot in the past few years,” she says. “I always thought that if I did well in school, I’d get a good job and if I got a good job, I’d have a nice life. But it doesn’t always work that way. I was fired from my first job because of politics. Business—and life, I guess—isn’t always about fair play. I couldn’t find a job so I went to Reggie’s, another one of Cuisine’s stores, and started my career as a waitress.”

  “Like me,” I break in.

  “Yes”—she nods—“like you. I got my MBA at night. I moved into corporate and as I got promoted, I made a point of hiring women with drive and ambition. It became a personal mission to help foster their careers. Don’t get me wrong”—she laughs—“I get something out of it, too, but I feel that if we can create a network of women like men’s good-old-boy cliques, then our business lives and our personal lives will prosper.”

  “What does this have to do with me?” I ask, not daring to hope.

  “The first night I saw you…”

  “I am so sorry about that. I was going through a hard time. Shelly, my sister…”

  “I know, Frannie. Please don’t apologize. You just reminded me…” She trails off. “As your career evolves, you will learn that a business life and a personal life are not mutually exclusive. Paul DiMartino told me about Shelly,” she says, and as I look at her, I feel her sympathy. “And since I know about Shelly, it’s only right to let you in on my own personal history.” The phone rings. “I’m sorry, Frannie, but I’ve been waiting for this call. Do you mind?”

  Are you for real? I shake my head. As she picks up the phone and starts speaking, I cross my fingers. Please please please don’t let this be a joke. She looks up. “Again, I’m sorry. That was our Wall Street store. They’re having a theme party and—”

  Without thinking, I blurt out that they should set up a bar outside. “Every time I’ve been there, it’s like a nightmare getting a drink. You have to stand like an idiot while whoever you’re with goes inside and of course, there’s no one decent to talk to…” I realize I’m rambling and sit back, startled by my enthusiasm.

  “That’s a good idea, Frannie,” she says, hanging up. I beam. Finally, trolling in bars has served me. “So,” she continues, “where were we?” She gets up and closes her door. Then she launches into a story. Apparently, the man she was with that night is a big shot in operations and she was having an affair with him. “His name was Ed Morgan,” she says, then pauses before continuing. “He was my boss. I knew he was married. And I knew he’d never leave his wife, but I didn’t care.” She tells me that she just kept seeing him, that she was crazy about him. “When you threw that wine, I suddenly felt so foolish being there, what with the way he was treating you.” She pauses. “And the way he was treating me.”

  “You’re so beautiful,” I tell her. “I can’t imagine you being crazy, especially about some guy. Seems like men would be crazy about you.”

  “Believe me, love can make anyone crazy. And when it’s not love, when it’s something else, it can assume a life all its own.” I nod and cringe, remembering Bryan. “To make a long story short,” Vicky says. “That evening brought me to my senses. It took courage to do what you did. I admired you for that. You left quite an impression.” She plays with a pen. “A month later, I requested a transfer and was promoted to this position. I thought about you a lot, Frannie. That night was a turning point for me.”

  “So you kept calling me to thank me?”

  “In a sense. I called because I knew I would need an assistant.” She waits a beat. “I want you to come work for me. You have spunk and charisma and if you’re as smart as Paul says, I know you’ll do a hell of a job.”

  And? Keep going. I’m also quite attractive, no? Giddy, I almost laugh out loud.

  “I’d like you to start in two weeks. I’m in promotions, which means we develop theme parties for Happy Hours, Monday night football, that sort of thing.” She leans forward. “What do you think?”

  I can’t believe this: a job developing food parties in bars. “It sounds like a dream come true,” I say. “I only have two questions.” I pause. “What’s your mother’s name and where did she go to school? I like to know these things in advance so I don’t make any stupid mistakes.”

  “Virginia,” she replies, not even stopping to question me. “And she didn’t go to college.”

  “Perfect.” I look up. “Where do I sign?”

  When I get home, there’s a letter by the phone.

  From the Desk of Abigail Lynn Friedman

  Attorney-at-Law

  Dear Frannie,

  I feel like I should be there to wish you a happy birthday, but since we’re not friends anymore, I don’t think it’s appropriate to just barge over. I know how sorry you are. If you want to call me and apologize, I think I can be a big enough person to accept.

  I miss you, Frannie. I miss you so much, I feel like my heart’s been carved out with a spoon. In some small way, I think I understand what it felt like when you lost Shelly. Maybe it’s presumptuous of me to think that I can feel something that painful, but remember that I’m an only child, and you’re the closest thing to a sister that I’ve ever had.

  I hope that you will call me so I can lavish you with gifts and get you drunk and help you pick up men. I know you must be chomping at the bit to get back to the bars. You don’t have to say it, but I’m sure life is no fun without me.

  So happy birthday, big girl. I’m waiting for you. I don’t have anyone to talk to anymore. Life without you is boring and lonely and just takes too long to live, if you know what I mean.

  I love you. I need you. Please forgive. I remain,

  Abby Lynn Friedman Junior, Esquire, the First

  Queen of the Planet

  P.S. If you’ve found yourself a new best friend, disregard above.

  My father walks into the kitchen. “I got a letter from Abby,” I tell him. “She wants to make up.”

  “Good. Are you going to call her?”

  “Tomorrow. I think I’ll sit with it for a little while.” As he walks back into his office, I start to tell him about Vicky Tayborn, but stop myself. I think I’ll sit with that, too. I notice a package on the table. I open the card. There’s a girl on the front, looking out a window. Her chin rests on her hand, and she looks dreamy-eyed and far away.

  * * *

  Dear Frannie:

  Happy 27th!! Try to remember that when a door closes, somewhere in the world, a window is opened. Have a happy day. I hope all your wishes come true.

  Love, Your dad

  * * *

  I open the package figuring he got me a T-shirt and a mug like last year. The box is from Neiman Marcus. I lift the cover and my breath catches. He got me a leather portfolio, the expensive
kind that women like Vicky Tayborn carry. I slip it under my arm and march around the kitchen. “James, get the car,” I say. “I have a board meeting at four.”

  As I walk to his office to thank my father, I notice a Glamour Shot on the microwave, the one in which he’s holding a pipe. I smile at him smiling at me, and I can’t help but think that the man is really much smarter than he looks.

  “I stopped by the house the other day and saw a picture of your father,” my mother says as she folds a blouse into a suitcase. We’re packing for her trip to Tempe. “Why is he wearing a cowboy outfit?”

  I avoid her eyes as I work through her underwear drawer. “He’s got a couple of different poses. You know, for different moods. He’s been going to group therapy. I think he’s dating his inner child.” And some woman named Eleanor.

  My mother laughs. She holds up a lavender dress. The dress has short, puffy sleeves. “What do you think?” she asks. “Too young?”

  I stare at her as if examining the dress, but I’m really searching her face for clues. I wonder if she and my dad are getting divorced. “No,” I tell her. “I bet it looks cute on.”

  She hands it to me. “You take it. I feel funny wearing it. Besides, it’s too dressy for Arizona.” She walks into her closet and comes out holding a purple blazer. “It will be nice for work. You need shoes, too?” She turns to her closet again. “I may have a pair that’ll go.”

  “No, I’m fine, Mom. I don’t need them.”

  She walks over to me, leans as if to hug me. I stiffen, although I don’t think she notices. She takes the outfit from me and shakes it. “We should put this in plastic,” she says. “You’re not careful enough with your clothes, Frannie.” She noticed. Guilty, I want to hug her, tell her I’ll miss her. She hands me a slip of paper. “Here’s Aunt Lillian’s number. If you need anything, call me. Also, call Grandpa every once in a while. I know you’ll be busy, but he’s going to miss having you around.”

  “I’ll spend a few nights a week at the home. You know, to make it easier.” I say this as if I’m only doing it for him.

  She eyes me closely. “How are you feeling? Are you okay? I won’t go if you’re not okay.” She pulls a scarf out of her drawer. “You seem better.” She says this with more urgency than she probably means.

  “I’m fine, Mom,” I tell her. I’m quiet a beat. “I miss Shelly though, even more than at the beginning.” My throat burns. “I dream about her. Sometimes I’ll be going about my day, not really thinking about anything and all of a sudden, I realize she’s gone and I become paralyzed. And every time is like it’s the first time, you know? The pain, I mean. It’s always a punch in the stomach.” I choose my words carefully. What I really want to do is ask my mother if she understands why Shelly killed herself, but out of a rush of love for her, I don’t ask for anything.

  My mother sits on the bed. She winds the scarf around her hand as if she’s binding it. “I miss her, too. It’s very difficult without my pills. I have a sharp pain that never goes away. Sometimes I can’t catch my breath, it hurts so much. Before it was a dull ache, as if I was living under water. Seems I’ve surfaced. The world’s not murky anymore, but living in it, as you say, ‘sucks.’” I sit down next to her. She wraps the scarf through my hair. “Collette can trim this if you want. For your first day.”

  I shake my head. “I just got it cut. I let Freddie do it.”

  She holds up the ends. “I thought maybe Collette could fix it up.” I’m aware of my mother’s hands on my shoulders, the pull of her fingers on my collar, the tickle of her nail on my neck. I feel every inch of her touch, which is tentative at first, but then grows stronger, more possessive.

  I let her play with my hair. I look up. She draws back and lets her hands drop. I take them in my own and squeeze. “I’ll miss you, Mom,” I tell her.

  “You will?” I nod. We sit for a few seconds, eyes forward, not speaking, but not in such a hurry to leave, either. I kick my heels beneath me, like a girl, like a daughter. Finally, she speaks. “The picture of your father made me laugh. Sometimes he can be a funny man, don’t you think?”

  I take the scarf off my head. “Sometimes.” It’s the only thing I can think of to say.

  Abby and I agree to meet at a diner. When I get there, she rises from the booth and hugs me. I hug her, too, but hold back a little.

  “You look great,” she tells me. “I can’t believe how much weight you’ve lost.”

  “I haven’t been trying. I just don’t seem to have an appetite lately.”

  “Are you okay?” she asks tentatively, searching my face.

  I nod. “I’m fine. It’s not like that. I’ve just been busy.” I tell her about my new job and the home and seeing Bryan.

  “You saw him!” she screeches. “OHMYGOD. How did he look?”

  “Not so good. But the funny part is that I started to run away from him, like really run. He had to chase me. I was practically down the street.”

  “You go, girl!” she says. As we laugh, it feels good to see her. She looks beautiful, as usual, and I tell her so. “Thanks,” she says, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m still seeing the midget. He wants to take me to Bermuda.” Then she launches into a long story about Randy and how they broke up for a while, but now she thinks they’re ready to make a commitment, maybe get engaged. “But what if we have short kids?” she rambles. “What if they all grow up with Napoleon complexes?”

  I start to feel edgy, and try to tell her about the things I’ve learned about Shelly, about the story I read, but Abby keeps cutting me off. I hold in my anger and completely stop listening. I shift in my seat and signal for the waiter. I never should have done this, I think. She’s the same.

  Suddenly, I can’t help myself and blurt out, “I can’t believe how fucking selfish you are! I’m trying to talk to you about Shelly. Shelly, my sister. What is wrong with you?”

  She looks at her hands. I see a tear fall. Slowly, I realize that maybe she’s upset about Shelly, too, that maybe she also lost a friend. “I’m sorry, Abby. I didn’t mean that.”

  “No, you’re right. You’re so right. It’s just…just that…” She can’t talk because she’s sobbing so I hold her hand and let her cry. She blows her nose. “I don’t know how to deal with it, Frannie. Shelly was your sister, I understand that, but I also grew up with her. I—”

  “I know,” I cut her off. “She was your friend, too. And I never once asked you how you felt. I never cared how much you hurt. I can’t take that back, Ab, but I can listen now.” I pause. “Please forgive me for being such a bitch. It was a Sister Thing.” She looks at me blankly.

  I explain, “It’s something you can’t define. Like when you’re cruel to the people you love the most, but you don’t know why.”

  “Maybe you’re cruel because you think they’ll always be there.” Abby wipes her tears. “When Shelly got sick, I felt so helpless. I couldn’t help her, and then I couldn’t help you. I felt like I was the worst friend in the world. To both of you.”

  “But you’re not. You stuck by me the whole time. You took a lot of shit. You’re my best friend, Abby. You always have been. There will never be another you in my life.”

  She waves me away, but not before holding my gaze for a long moment. In her eyes, wet with tears, I see everything I’ve missed. “It’s so good to see you,” she whispers. Then she changes the subject. “So what do you think, Frannie? Should I go to Bermuda with him?” I nod, smiling. “If it makes you happy, Abby, then go. You deserve to be happy.”

  “It’s a free trip. Frankly, I knew he’d come around. He said he didn’t want to lose me.” She smiles sheepishly. “You blame him?”

  When Bryan calls, I agree to meet him for a drink. I drive Shelly’s car into the city and park on the street.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” he says when I walk in. “I wasn’t sure if you’d show up.”

  “I wasn’t sure if I would, either,” I tell him honestly. We order drinks, then sit for a while and
talk about nothing. I suck my drink quickly. I chewed a Valium on the ride over and the drink warms my stomach. “It hasn’t been easy,” I tell him, referring to everything.

  “Losing a sibling has got to be painful. The grieving process can take a long time. Even when you think you’re better, it can hit you again like a ton of bricks.”

  “You have sisters or brothers?”

  He nods. “One brother.”

  “Are you close to him?”

  “Close enough.”

  “Huh.” I signal the waiter for another drink. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Shelly. I mean, about her life.” I pick at the lime in my glass. “I was wondering if there was anything you could tell me about Shelly? I mean, something that may help me to understand why she kill…why what happened happened?”

  “I read her chart. I don’t think there was anything in it that could give you any more answers than any of us have. From a clinical perspective, she was still depressed, but the doctors who treated her believed she was stable and ready to leave. If I’d been her doctor, I would have done the same thing.”

  The waiter brings us fresh drinks. I watch Bryan as he hands him some bills. “But was there anything in her chart about a specific event that may have happened a long time ago?”

  “Nothing specific. Only that she had problems with intimacy, with sexual relationships.” I can’t tell if he’s lying or not, but I let it go. “Frannie,” he starts, “when something tragic happens, it’s normal to try to pinpoint one event or one reason to help you make sense of it. But in situations like Shelly’s, there’s rarely one reason; it’s much more complex than that, and you can go crazy trying to figure it out. Don’t do that to yourself.”

  “I’m already crazy.” I feel the liquor and the Valium kick in and my head starts to buzz. When I scratch it, the buzzing increases. I take another gulp.

  Bryan takes my hand. “I don’t think you’re crazy,” he says slowly. “I think you’re very beautiful.”